


Apex

by QueerQuaking



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Aphrodisiacs, Contains both show and book canon, Eventual Rape/Non-Con, Eventual Torture, Gaslighting, M/M, Mindfuck, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Psychological Torture, Sorry Throbb Shippers this is Thramsay Country, Theon Whump, Yee-haw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 23:06:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29600106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueerQuaking/pseuds/QueerQuaking
Summary: When Theon Greyjoy is exiled from Winterfell, he is forced to reside at one of the closest castles—the Dreadfort. While everything seems fairly benign (if not a bit eerie) at first, he soon realizes that everything is not as it seems.Alternatively: The One Where Theon is Ward of the Dreadfort Instead of Winterfell.
Relationships: Past Theon Greyjoy/Robb Stark - Relationship, Ramsay Bolton/Theon Greyjoy
Comments: 16
Kudos: 46





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, welcome to my first dumpster fire of a Thramsay story! I haven’t written anything in quite a bit, so I apologize in advance for the rustiness. I am a bit late to this fandom, but I absolutely love this ship, and the writers/creators/everyone else who contributes to it, so I figured I may as well throw in my own content. 
> 
> I intended for this first chapter to be a short, introductory chapter, but somehow it managed to get considerably longer than expected. Still, expect longer chapters than this in the future. Also, I have never posted a multi-chaptered fic before, so hopefully this will go well.. (P.S. I’m probably going to change the title, I’m just uncreative and wanted to get this posted)
> 
> Anywho, I hope anyone who reads this enjoys; I know this ship is not everyone’s cup of tea, but for the select few who enjoy it, this is for you

At the age of nine, Theon Greyjoy’s fragile world burst around him. His father’s rebellion ended with the Iron Islands in ruin, and the vast majority of his family dead. Theon was to be displaced halfway across the Seven Kingdoms; from there, surprisingly enough, matters only seemed to get better, before they inevitably became worse. 

Initially, Theon was to stay with a kind man by the name of Eddard Stark. As horrifying and confusing as it may have been to be forcibly ripped from his home, at least Lord Stark promised him a warm bed and sufficient meals daily. Theon was covertly excited to learn that Lord Stark had a son at his same age, and throughout the ride to Winterfell, Theon asked countless questions about him. They seemed to have quite a bit in common, according to the Warden of the North, and Theon felt slightly more optimistic. 

For six years, life went by without a hitch. He spent all of his spare time with Robb, satisfied to have a companion in the strange land of Winterfell. Together, they learned to ride horses, tried to woo unwilling kitchen maids, and practiced archery—and grew quite good at all three, in Theon’s not-so-professional opinion. He lived a life of almost equivalent lavishness to that of the young lording of House Stark. However, as time went on, he and Robb happened to grow closer and closer. With his auburn hair and sparkling livid irises, his almost agitating white-knight complex and easy smile, Theon found himself falling farther and farther for his captor’s son. 

Being young and a bit confused with his feelings, Theon naturally attempted to ignore the insistent pull to be as close to Robb as possible. He proceeded to train as usual with the eldest Stark boy, talk with him over mundanities into the earliest hours of dawn, go on overnight trips to neighboring villages with him on business. For a few moons, life seemed to continue as normal. 

However, as time went on, his admiration only grew. On his first brothel visit, he had to bite his tongue to keep from moaning Robb’s name. During training sessions, he would occasionally have to walk away from the group to hide the untimely tightness of his trousers. Perhaps the worst of all was when he would have to play off the sudden redness of his cheeks when Robb would compliment him. Horrified at himself for blushing like a maiden, Theon would make insistent claims of the immense heat from the embers of a dying fire. 

Beyond Robb, Theon was sincerely alone in Winterfell. While he was frequently told to aid in the care of the two youngest Stark children, Bran and Rickon, Theon never particularly formed a bond with either. Too large of an age gap, presumably. He liked Arya well enough, but the age gap again prevented him from spending any time with her. Sansa was certainly attractive, but too up-tight with her constant talk of princes and happily-ever-afters. And then there was Jon Snow. Lord Stark’s irritable, apathetic bastard son always rubbed Theon the wrong way. Conversing with Jon always felt to Theon like mingling with the common folk: dull and, quite frankly, below him. Theon made it a point to remind Jon of his status at any given opportunity.

Due to the lingering animosity that always seemed to thicken the air between Jon and Theon, the ward of Winterfell was beyond surprised when Jon Snow himself sulked over to Theon during drills. As sullen as ever, Jon regarded Theon with a bored, tired glance.

“I see the way you look at him.” Jon said simply.

Theon’s heart leaped to his throat in an instant, palms slickening and face paling slightly. Still, he tried to play it off as coolly as he could. “Look at who?”

“Robb.” The word was spoken in monotone, yet to Theon, it sounded every bit as damning as a death sentence.

Internal defenses raising, Theon dropped his ever-present grin and lowered his voice to an icy tone. “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re speaking of, bastard.” He shouldered past Jon harshly, excusing himself from training loudly as he went. 

——————————

After the encounter with Jon, Theon became much more paranoid about his interactions with Robb. If the Stark bastard could see Theon’s interest, who was to say that everyone couldn’t? Who was to say that Robb himself couldn’t? Robb, ever-so pleasant and professional, likely wouldn’t say anything if he did notice. He would take pity on Theon’s fragility and act as if nothing was amiss. Theon couldn't bring himself to look in Robb’s calming storm-blue eyes for days after that realization, horrified that he would find nothing but pity and disappointment in them. In fact, Theon made a weak attempt at avoiding Robb whenever possible. 

Rather than occupying the chair by Robb’s side during meals, Theon made diluted excuses of needing to brush up on his studies. During drills, Theon would take any possible opportunity to seem immersed in his practice. He no longer stood on the sidelines to chat with Robb or bicker with Jon and even volunteered extra time to help the younger children learn archery and swordsmanship. He no longer ventured into Robb’s chambers in the evening to spin a half-hearted tale of his most recent romantic conquest, and he pretended to be asleep when Robb would knock upon his door. 

His avoidance lasted a mere eight days before Robb cornered him. Theon was hurriedly shuffling toward his room, a half-loaf of bread in hand, when he heard Robb calling after him. 

“Hey, Theon! Wait!” Robb shouted after him, literally running to catch up. Theon would have found it almost laughable, with Robb acting as if he was expecting Theon to dash off and hide from him, if the thought had not briefly crossed his mind. 

Sighing quietly in resignation, Theon spun around, forced grin pulling his lips taut, to meet his fate. As much as he may have wanted to slam the door in the redhead’s face, he was certain that would not bode well with Robb’s Lord father. 

“Oh, hey, Robb. What did you need?” He asked as kindly as he could muster, praying to the Drowned God that Robb did not hear the slight tremor in his words. 

“Can I come in?” Robb asked, gesturing to Theon’s tightly-closed chamber door. Theon cursed his poor luck, but reluctantly opened said door, walking in and holding the door for Robb to follow. The click as the door closed behind them reminded Theon of the rumbling of the stones that seal tombs. 

Even after five years, Theon was not quite accustomed to the consistent chill of the North. He began setting up a small fire in the hearth, trying in vain to ignore the palpable tension that hovered in the room. Robb remained silent and still as he did so, awkwardly lingering by the doorway and watching with disinterest. As the flames crackled to life, Theon shuffled towards his bed of furs and sat unceremoniously atop them. 

“Did you want to sit?” He asked courteously. He was sure his distaste was obvious, but he was still a prince—he had to learn to fake manners at some point, and there was seemingly no better time than the present. 

Robb nodded, his eyes seeming to search Theon’s face for something. He sat on the opposite side, an unusually large gap separating the two boys. “You’ve been avoiding me. Did I do something that upset you?”  _ No beating around the bush, then _ .

“I haven’t been avoiding you.” Another fake, painfully fake, grin. Denial seemed to be Theon’s go-to as of recent. 

Robb sighed, reaching to rub at the corner of his eye—something he did when he was stressed, Theon had noticed. “Is this about Kamyl? I swear I wasn’t flirting with her.” 

Theon’s mind blanked momentarily.  _ Who? Oh, right, Sansa’s newest handmaiden _ . Theon resisted the urge to laugh at Robb’s innocence. “No, of course not. You can have her if you want her.” At least he could be sincere about that, even if the thought of Robb  _ having _ anyone that wasn’t himself caused something dark and grotesque to swirl in his chest. 

Robb seemed genuinely surprised by Theon’s easy response. Theon couldn’t help the passing thought of just how nice Robb looked when his eyes sparkled with confusion, eyebrows knit together and lips slightly parted in consideration. 

“Then what did I do?” Robb asked seriously, stormcloud eyes boring into Theon’s own. Robb unconsciously moistened his lips, undoubtedly from the fire-dried air, and Theon couldn’t stop his pupils from dilating slightly, following Robb’s tongue with his eyes. 

“ _ Nothing _ .” Theon tried, cheeks warming when the word cracked between syllables. 

Theon’s feeble attempt seemed to be useless, however, as Robb seemed to catch on agonizingly fast. Before Theon could backtrack any farther, Robb was leaning forward, his hand coming to rest on Theon’s cheek. Theon’s eyes widened, unable to move as Robb closed the gap between them. Theon felt like he was underwater, watching from afar and in slow-motion as Robb’s slightly-chapped lips brushed delicately against his. Robb’s lips were a bit moist, yet infinitely gentle, and Theon couldn’t help but let out a deep sigh and melt into the kiss. 

Theon moved to tangle his fingers in coppery curls just as Robb pulled back, and the Prince of the Iron Islands honest to gods  _ whimpered like a desperate whore _ when he lost contact with Robb’s warm mouth. 

“Why’d you-?” Theon mumbled, still reeling from the unexpected action.

“That was what you wanted, right?” Robb asked, breathing a bit heavily.

“ _ Gods, yes _ .” Theon breathed before he could stop himself, then sputtered when he realized what he’d just said. “I, uh. I mean, I guess?” 

Robb simply laughed breathily before leaning back in. Their lips crashed together, a bit more sure. Theon did not hesitate to thread his fingers through Robb’s surprisingly silky curls this time around, hesitantly tonguing at the redhead’s lower lip. The second kiss lasted longer and was a bit rougher, inexperience on both ends shining through. If Theon was the sappy type, he probably would have claimed it was perfect. When they reluctantly pulled away, Robb rested his forehead against Theon’s, eyes closed and heavy breaths falling from open lips. 

After another moment of hungry-yet-temporarily-satiated silence, Theon decided to speak. “Was that okay?” He regretted his words instantly.  _ Careful, he’ll see your insecurity. _

Robb smiled. “Yeah. That was…” He trailed off a moment, before opening his eyes and looking right into Theon’s seafoam irises, “Really, really good.” 

Theon regained his bearings, placing a smirk on his face. “Wanna do it again?” Robb responded with a smile of his own, gently pushing Theon down into the wolf pelts. While Theon would have ordinarily hated being on his back like a tavern whore, he found that with Robb he did not mind. 

As it often does, things quickly escalated. One moment they were simply kissing, gently caressing whatever skin they could reach on the other. The next moment, articles of clothing were flying across the room, and Theon was clumsily reaching for a bottle of leather polish in the table beside his bed. When Robb grabbed for the bottle, Theon handed it over willingly, even as slight hesitancy crept through his mind. 

“I’ve never done this before.” He all but whispered. 

“Neither have I.” Robb replied, and they shared a meaningful look. An unspoken understanding fell over them as Robb popped the lid and began warming the oil in his palms. 

What followed was clumsy, inexperienced, and certainly messier than when Theon had fucked his first whore. At first, it was immensely uncomfortable, but Robb was patient and gentle, and Theon eventually melted into every thrust. When he came, Theon didn’t need to attempt to stifle his moan of Robb’s name. As soon as it was over, Theon instantly felt like a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders. For the first time in his life perhaps, Theon felt as if he truly belonged, and the warmth of the emotion was almost enough to bring joyful moisture to his eyes. 

They did not even bother to clean up afterward. Theon forwent adding a few sturdy logs to the fire, as he did every night before bed, to instead wrap both himself and Robb in thick pelts. Tangled together, exhausted and happy, they both fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

——————————

Distantly, Theon heard banging. Sleep seemed to have a firm hold on him, however. He felt as if he were deep in murky water, trying to break the surface yet failing greatly. He unconsciously snuggled farther into the sweltering heat against his back, a satisfied sound escaped his throat. 

Seemingly all at once, the door banged open, and a shrill “ _ Theon?! _ ” echoed through the room. Theon was wide-awake at that, trying to bolt upward. Something held him to the bed, and he looked down in panic. Arms tightened around his waist.  _ Robb, right, fuck _ . 

“Sansa, I can explain-“ Theon started, while trying to shake Robb awake. After a moment, stormcloud eyes blinked open sleepily, and if it were any other circumstance Theon would have leaned down to capture the redhead in a bruising kiss. This was, however,  _ not the time _ for that. 

Theon could see the exact moment that Robb came to awareness. His eyes widened comically, and he recoiled his hands as if he had been burned. He bolted upwards, jostling the pelts. That was an obvious mistake. Sansa shrieked in horror and quickly turned around, covering her eyes and running down the hall. Theon looked over and-  _ bloody fucking hells. _ When Robb had sat up, he had apparently uncovered his entire body, putting on the display the fact that he was fully naked. 

Robb jumped up as he cursed under his breath. He ran to shut the door loudly before he started collecting his clothing at breakneck speed. Theon watched helplessly, dumbly, numbly as Robb prepared to leave. 

“I’m sorr-“ He started, right as the door slammed behind the redhead on his way out. 

——————————

Theon dressed in a haze of self-pity. He looked outside to find it to be shortly after sunrise. Sansa was likely sent to collect him to break his fast. As he walked to the dining hall, Theon could not help but relate distinctly to the men he had seen on the executioner’s block. The same men that Theon had laughed at and mocked for the hopelessness on their faces were ironically now who he felt a kinship to. He would certainly be seeing that block soon, from an entirely new perspective. 

Theon remained silent during breakfast. He sat in a corner, table entirely to himself. His mind swirled with what-if scenarios and possible methods of execution. As breakfast ended and servants began taking away plates and uneaten food, Theon saw Sansa stand and approach her father. She made direct, likely accidental eye contact with Theon before she began speaking inaudibly to Lord Stark. They left the dining hall together. A heavy, foreboding chill of fear stuck tackily to Theon’s chest, causing his heart to pound against his ribcage. As everyone filtered out of the dining hall, Theon did not catch a single glimpse of Robb.

——————————

Anxious and penitent, Theon tried earnestly to continue his daily affairs as typical. He attended morning drills, first teaching the younger boys, then learning more advanced techniques from Ser Rodrik. One facet that stood out was the distinct lack of Robb. Theon hadn’t seen the redhead since he had fled from his chambers earlier that morning, which was certainly an odd occurrence. 

By midday, Theon was startled at any human contact. When Bran dashed past him in the courtyard, he nearly died of shock, and when a cute kitchen maid asked for help reaching something from a high cupboard, he gasped like a man rising from the dead. That had been awkward to brush off. At any opportunity for his mind to wander, Theon saw his own severed head lolling to the frost-covered grass; he continued to regret his past apathy to those who had previously occupied the executioner’s block. 

Finally, as the day grew short, and the castle buzzed with servants preparing for supper, Theon was approached by Eddard Stark’s squire. Theon instantly felt his blood freeze in his veins, and his heart jump to his throat as the young blond boy nervously approached him.

“Lord Stark requests your presence in his study.” Came the high-pitched, shaky request. 

Theon attempted to swallow the bile climbing up his throat, and push down the panic seizing his lungs. He merely nodded, his face pale in his incoming damnation. He followed the small boy through the winding halls, attempting to drag his heels as subtly as possible. As they reached the looming, ornate door, the squire knocked, opened the gate to Theon’s personal hell, and had the audacity to bow before exiting.  _ Traitor _ . As he walked in, Theon nearly turned and bolted back out—if he had anywhere to go, he surely would have. 

Sat in a smaller, less elaborate chair directly across from Eddard Stark was Robb. Theon avoided any form of eye contact, ducked his head, and shuffled to the only other chair in the room. Tragically, it was directly beside Robb’s. 

“M’lord.” Theon greeted weakly as he sunk into his chair. 

“I’m sure you know why you are here, Greyjoy,” Lord Stark began, face sullen as ever. 

“Yes, M’lord.” Theon said, head still bowed, and eyes still pinned to the ground.

“You are aware of the typical repercussions for actions such as yours, I’m sure.” The image of his own decapitated corpse resurfaced in Theon’s mind.

“I am aware, M’lord.” 

“However,” Lord Stark continued, “Your circumstances are far from typical. According to my son, both of your actions were consensual. Is that correct?”

“Yes, M’lord.” Theon murmured once more, a broken record frozen in fear.

“And you are still needed in the North as collateral in preventing another rebellion in the Iron Islands.” Theon felt a tinge of hope spreading through his chest like liquid fire, but tried to quell it as best as possible. He knew better than to expect the best. “Still, Catelyn will be furious if she hears of this; the New Gods abhor same-sex relations, as I’m sure you are both aware.” 

For the first time since Theon set foot in the room, Robb spoke up. “We know, Father, we’re both very sorry. It won’t happen again.” While logically Theon knew their arrangement would not go any further, it still stung hearing it aloud. 

Lord Stark sighed deeply and pinched the bridge of his nose in what was presumably stress. “I must admit I am not yet sure what to make of this situation. Since Greyjoy’s residence in the North is a matter of maintaining peace in all of Westeros, I fear I must request King Robert’s advice on this.” 

Theon looked over at Robb, only to see his head bowed similarly to how Theon’s previously was, with auburn curls obscuring his face. Theon was not thrilled about the King knowing of the situation; what if the people of the Iron Islands heard of Theon’s personal affairs? He was certain that no self-respecting Ironborn would serve a prince that took it up the ass from a Northerner. 

“I will be sending out the raven momentarily,” Eddard continued, oblivious to Theon’s inner turmoil. “Until I hear back from Robert, I regret to request that you boys stay away from one another. Theon, you are excused from drills and will be given tasks to complete instead. Robb, I will be sending you on errands more frequently. It will be good practice for when you take over as King in the North.” 

“I understand, Lord Stark.” Theon said solemnly. 

“I also understand.” Robb added, equally as solemn.

“Theon, you may be dismissed. Robb, would you mind staying for a moment longer?” 

As Robb uttered his agreeance, Theon simply stood and bowed courteously, avoiding looking Lord Stark in the face as he swiftly exited. He barely made it to his personal chambers before the tears began to roll down his cheeks in thick drops. He mentally cursed his weakness as he collapsed into his bed of pelts. 

——————————-

A quarter moon passed uneventfully. Theon spent his days bored beyond comparison—lonely, depressed, and uneasy. His dreams were plagued by gore and hateful glances. The worst of said dreams were ones of Robb: Robb swinging Ice down upon Theon’s unsuspecting neck, Robb glaring at Theon with pure contempt. One ghoulish nightmare in particular involved Robb’s head limp in the snow, crimson pouring from torn arteries, and unadulterated revulsion frozen upon his soft features for eternity. Theon had heaved the contents of the previous evening’s supper into his chamber pot upon startling awake from that one. 

Still, things could only get worse. Regardless of the efforts by both Stark and Greyjoy alike, Catelyn eventually found out. While no one confessed to opening that particular pit of the hells, Theon had his suspicions that Sansa had been the one to let it slip. Oddly enough, he couldn’t find it within himself to loathe her for it; he had deserved it, after all. As Theon was slapped open-palm across the cheek, as Catelyn screamed in his face, saliva flying in warm droplets, about how Theon _defiled her precious boy_ , the debased Prince of the Iron Islands reminded himself ardently that he _deserved_ _it_. 

——————————

Just over half a moon since it had been sent, the raven from King’s Landing returned. Theon was called back to Lord Stark’s office. He sat on the edge of the small chair, his back straight and eyes forward: an absolute juxtaposition from his stature the last time he had held that seat. Over the days of near-solitude, he had resolved to take his punishment in stride. He already felt estranged enough from his Ironborn roots as it was, he need not further tarnish his family name. 

“Greyjoy. The raven returned this morning.” Eddard’s mood seemed to be a bit lighter than before, though the man was so monotone that Theon could never be entirely sure. Mayhaps it was only wishful thinking. 

“What did it say, M’lord?” Theon had been waiting impatiently for what felt like a lifetime for his fate to be sealed; he was ready to face it, now. 

“Robert agreed that you are a crucial part of maintaining peace with the Iron Islands. We need you in the North, but he understood why you cannot stay here. He gave me discretion in deciding your ultimate punishment, but demanded you remain in the North. You are going to be sent to a neighboring Lord.” 

Theon remained silent a moment, allowing it to sink in. He was going to be passed to another Northern Lord, like one may trade horses or cotton. He tried not to take the indirect insult to heart. 

“Where will I be going, M’lord?” Theon asked, his voice more hoarse than he intended.

“I discussed it with Catelyn, and she believed that the Dreadfort would be the best place to send you. It is fairly close, you may even be able to visit, on occasion.” 

Theon had heard of the Dreadfort in passing. Ruled by Lord Bolton, the people of the Dreadfort were a bit closed-off from the rest of the North. They rarely attended social gatherings and boasted the sigil of the flayed man. While Theon had never met Lord Bolton directly, he could only assume from his sigil that he wasn’t quite as warm and forgiving as Lord Stark. He remained quiet a moment as it sunk in.

“And for my punishment?” 

The emotions that passed over Eddard Stark’s face were as blatant and raw as pity and reluctance could possibly be. “Worry not about it, Prince Greyjoy. I will send a raven to Lord Bolton of your impending arrival.”

——————————-

One moon before his sixteenth nameday, Theon was set to depart. In the entryway of the castle, he said his goodbyes, though he was certain that no one was going to be particularly upset about his absence. Arya gave him a wildflower she had found in the shrubbery in the courtyard. Rickon gave him an enthusiastic hug, still a bit too innocent to understand what was occurring. Bran smiled and wished him well before rushing off to find something more interesting to do. Sansa said nothing, but offered him a polite smile. Theon couldn’t help the anger that burned behind his eyelids at that small gesture. Jon gave him one of his classic pouty-yet-apathetic looks before bumping his shoulder almost-kindly as he walked past. Catelyn gave him a cruel grin while Eddard bid him safe travels, eyes sorrowful. Of course, the only one he wanted to say goodbye to was absent. 

While Robb had instigated the kiss and had been an overtly willing participant in the activities that followed, Theon could not place any blame or resentment on him. It was Theon’s own fault, he should have known better than to fall for his captor’s son. 

Soon enough, he was mounting a horse, accompanied by two guards to keep him safe along the way. Just as he was crossing from the stables to the woods, a flash of familiar auburn caught his eye. From a not-so-far-away distance, he could see Robb Stark standing alone, watching him depart. Theon thought he could see glistening tracks on the redhead’s pale cheeks, but hoped it was simply a trick of the light. When Robb waved and gave Theon what could only be described as a smile of pure melancholy, however, Theon could have sworn he felt not only his own heart shatter into thousands of bloodied fragments, but Robb’s as well.

——————————-

Along the way to the Dreadfort, Theon was subjected to plenty of discussion about Lord Bolton and his castle. Most of which Theon was an unwilling listener to, and nothing more. The first guard, a middle-aged man with more hair on his thick eyebrows than his actual head, seemed particularly inclined to gossip.

“Did you hear about that time a group of wildlings made it all the way to the Dreadfort?” Eyebrows asked the other guard, who Theon had taken to mentally referring to as Scowl. His deep frown lines attested to the fact that the man had never displayed any other facial expression. 

“No.” Scowl responded, uninterested as ever. Eyebrows was undeterred by his attitude.

“They say Lord Bolton had them all captured within ten minutes. Split the men from dick to ears, in that order, then skinned and tanned ‘em all for boots. He gave the women to his son to  _ play _ with.” He said the word with distaste, as if it had the texture of rusted needles in his mouth. 

Despite the nature of the conversation, Theon’s interest was piqued. He was not aware that Lord Bolton had a son. While he intended to follow his ' _ don’t get your hopes up _ ' mentality, Theon could not help the small spark of optimism at the realization. Perhaps life at the Dreadfort would not be so bad, after all. Maybe he could become friends with Lord Bolton’s son; his time at Winterfell had been agonizing when spent in solitude. Could the Dreadfort be his opportunity to revise his past mistakes? 

As they drew closer to the destination, a dark, looming structure came into view. Theon could tangibly feel his hopes wither to the ground to die in lonesome agony.

——————————-

The guards left Theon at the gates. Eyebrows gave a half-hearted excuse of how they were needed back at Winterfell promptly. Theon had his suspicions that they were simply too afraid to enter.

Even without the Winterfell guards, Theon was let into the Dreadfort with minimal hassle. As he was led to the largest building, Theon tried to take in his surroundings. It somehow seemed darker within the walls. The shadows stretched farther, cut deeper, danced and swayed in a way that reminded Theon of the ghost stories Old Nan would tell the younger Stark children. There were considerably few people milling about, but the air was not silent. Dogs were loud in the background, some closer than others, seemingly innumerable. Other sounds cut through the air, too. What sounded like a horn, and  _ oh, was that a scream? _ Even the air seemed restless, wind howling shrilly through the leaves. Despite the sounds, the streets remained eerily desolate. The few people Theon did pass had heads bowed low to the ground, scurrying past without so much as a glance in his direction. 

The interior of the Dreadfort was much like he would have assumed. Cold and silent, Theon could hear each footfall of his boots and those of his escorts echoing endlessly down the hall. Speaking of halls, they seemed to stretch onward forever. Was he entering a castle or a labyrinth? After walking for an unsettling amount of time, the escorts stopped at a sizable iron door. The flayed man sigil was molded onto each of the two heavy-looking panels. The escorts wordlessly grabbed a handle each, wrenching open the doors for Theon to enter the room.

Unnerved, Theon stepped across the threshold. Inside, Theon immediately noticed a few things. The first was the drop in temperature. Despite a large fire roaring in the hearth, the room was  _ freezing _ . Next, he noticed the pelts. Across the floor were dozens of rugs, each from an immense creature of the woods. On the walls were dozens of mounted heads, from dire wolves ( _ how had they acquired those? _ ) to wild boars. Directly above the hearth, a medium-sized square of light tan leather hung innocuously.  _ Wait, that couldn’t be-? No. Nope, they wouldn’t. But, would they-? _ Theon abruptly ended that train of thought. 

Despite his previous observations, it took him an embarrassingly long amount of time to notice the man in the centre of the room. In fact, it took him long to even notice the actual contents of the room at all. A long, dark wood table, equipped to seat at least forty people, made up the entirety of the room’s furnishings. At the far end, at the head of the table, sat a solitary man. He appeared to be on the cusp between middle and old age, with a salt-and-pepper toned beard, and a distinct bald spot circling the top of his head. He sat with his back straight, legs together, still as a statue as Theon looked around. Finally, they made eye contact. The man’s eyes were the most striking part of his appearance. They were a frosty blue-grey, the colour of violent storm clouds reflected over a frozen wasteland. Most startlingly of all, however, was the utter lack of light. His eyes were completely dull and devoid of any emotion, like stone. 

“Theon Greyjoy,” He greeted, his voice as monotonous as his eyes. “Welcome to the Dreadfort, my name is Roose Bolton. I took the liberty of having my men prepare a room for you. They will be here to escort you to it momentarily. I must say, I was not expecting you quite so soon, so I apologize if everything is not to your liking,” He did not sound the least bit apologetic, in fact, he did not sound the least bit  _ anything _ . Theon let that slide. “You will be given daily tasks. I’ll have my son introduce you to those. We have a few rules here at the Dreadfort. We also have consequences for breaking those rules. Follow the rules and you will be fine.” His voice did not waiver, change pitch, or vary in speed at all through the duration of his spiel. “Do your work, stay on the grounds at all times, and do not go into the dungeons fo-“ 

The door slammed open abruptly, effectively cutting Roose off. Before turning to see who entered, Theon noticed Lord Bolton’s eyebrow twitch in annoyance.  _ So, he’s living, after all _ . 

“Father.” Came a new voice. It was certainly higher in pitch than Lord Bolton’s, and less monotone. In fact, there was an edge of barely-restrained giddiness to it that gave it an unnerving quality. Theon turned around to face the doorway. The man, Lord Bolton’s son, presumably, was young, likely only a nameday or two older than Theon, with black hair and pale skin. Like his father, this man had eerily pale eyes, but his were a deep contrast to Lord Bolton’s. Where Lord Bolton’s eyes were narrowed and dull, this man’s eyes were buzzing with light and energy. Furthermore, Rooses’ son’s pupils were blown wide in mania, darting wildly back and forth as he strode quickly across the room. 

“Ramsay. You have a little,” Roose reached up to gesture to his own cheek, movements smooth and emotionless. 

Theon belatedly noticed what Lord Bolton was alluding to. A crimson droplet was smudged messily along the man’s ( _ Ramsay’s? _ ) cheek.

“Hm?” Ramsay reached to his cheek, before coming in contact with the liquid. “Whoops. From supper.” He said vaguely, popping his index finger into his mouth obscenely after collecting the red remnants. 

Roose sighed in what could only be disdain, before gesturing to Theon. “Our guest has arrived.” 

Seemingly noticing him for the first time, Ramsay turned his full attention to Theon. The Prince of the Iron Islands felt a shiver go through his entire body. So much for optimism and making friends; the notion seemed quite naive, now. Ramsay’s eyes seemed to grow darker, and a wide,  _ too wide _ , grin split across his lips. His teeth seemed to shine in the low light, and his canines appeared distinctly razor sharp. The gaze reminded Theon of a predator finding its prey in a trap. Feral, taunting,  _ ravenous _ . 

“It’s an absolute  _ pleasure _ to meet you, Theon.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo, so this took a bit longer than intended. Whoops. 
> 
> I forgot to clarify on the previous chapter that this is set as an odd mashup of book and show canon, meaning that the ages, appearances, and a few of the show-only characters will appear, but some book-only characters will also appear, along with some of the book-specified quirks that did not make it into the show. If you’d like further clarification, please feel free to ask! 
> 
> Also, if you have any specific triggers, please heed the tags, as they will be updated with each chapter.
> 
> Anywho, without further ado, I hope you enjoy.

After a horribly tense bout of small talk between Roose, Ramsay, and himself, Theon was finally dismissed from the stifling atmosphere of the meeting room. Alas, he was not dismissed alone. There was still a grand tour to be given, after all.

“So I suppose we can start here. This is my father’s main meeting room. Every dull Lord that happens upon the Dreadfort is subjected to  _ business discussion _ at that table.” Ramsay begins from the hall, gesturing to the sealed doors. His distaste for his father’s work was blatant in his almost mocking tone.

“But that’s tastelessly drab,” He continued, without prompting, “Let’s continue onward.”

Theon followed, albeit reluctantly. Something about Ramsay shook him to the core. His ghostly pale eyes seemed to look  _ through _ Theon as if he could strip him bare and gaze upon his soft insides. 

“This door here leads to the dungeons. Speaking of,” Theon watched his eyes light up further, if possible, as he seemed to have some sort of epiphany, “You will have three tasks to complete during the day tomorrow. Among them, you must scrub the floors along the main hall of the dungeons. For some reason, the floors happen to become uncharacteristically, ah…  _ Sullied _ around this time of year. While you may do your tasks in any order, I would recommend saving the dungeons for last.” He finished, staring straight into Theon’s soul with a menacing smirk. 

“All right. And where would I find the supplies for scrubbing the floors?” Theon asked, trying to keep his tone calm and polite. 

Ramsay smiled at him again, his eyes still glinting in the low light of the main hallway. He raised his hand in a gesture to follow before he began striding rather quickly away. Theon bit back a snide remark as he tried to catch up. Finally, they reached a small, single door. Unlike every other immaculately clean and polished slate of metal they had passed, this door was dull and rusted. Ramsay threw it open and stepped aside so Theon could see the contents of the room. 

“This is the main supply closet. Brooms, buckets, cleaning powders, and whatever else you may need can probably be found inside.” Theon nodded in acknowledgement, mentally filing away the uniqueness of the door to find in the morning. 

“And for my other two chores?” Theon prompted, noticing that Ramsay’s attention seemed to be a bit scattered. His eyes never stopped moving, flitting from ceiling, to floor, to wall, to _ Theon’s soul _ ceaselessly. 

“Ah, that. Let’s see…” He trailed off momentarily, tonguing a sharp canine in thought. “Sweep this hallway. Don’t worry about scrubbing it, we have maids for that.” Theon couldn’t help but wonder why he had to sweep if they had servants dedicated to maintenance. Still, he kept his mouth shut;  _ it wouldn’t be good to make enemies during his first night. _ “Around midday, you can go to the kennels. Clean up after the hounds and such.” 

Theon thought back to his arrival a short time ago. The barking of dogs seemed deafening, vicious. How many hounds could the Boltons possibly need? Theon was not particularly fond of dogs, what with their persistent barking, constant drooling, and obnoxious excitability when it comes to their masters. Compared to his other two jobs, he was the least enthusiastic about cleaning kennels.

“Where are the kennels?” Theon asked, looking around for a window, before realizing that there  _ weren't any. _

“Big wooden building,” Ramsay spread his arms in emphasis, almost touching both walls of the narrow walkway, “If that’s too difficult for you, just follow the sound of whining. As long as you aren’t in the castle, that should take you right to the hounds.” Theon consciously pushed the,  _ ‘as long as you aren’t in the castle _ ’ from his mind, refusing to dwell on it.

“Okay, is that all I am to do tomorrow?” Theon asked, masking his distaste for the entire oppressive situation. 

Ramsay gave him an odd look as if that was not what he was expecting Theon to say. “That will suffice for tomorrow, at least.” 

They continued with the tour for what felt like an unnecessary amount of time. In between doorways and explanations, Ramsay exuberantly filled Theon in on some histories of the Dreadfort. He explained everything from the reign of the Red Kings during the Age of Heroes, to the Bolton tradition of flaying one's enemies. He seemed particularly excited while describing the torture done to betrayers centuries ago, since he gestured wildly with his hands, mad grin in place. He animatedly discussed separating slabs of skin from bone and muscle, informing Theon of what sections of the body were safest to flay without killing a person too quickly. 

“Always avoid the upper legs and inner arms if you wanna drag it out a while,” He had said, “If you hit an artery, they’re going to bleed out in minutes. Where’s the fun in that?” Theon suppressed a shiver.

Finally,  _ finally _ , they reached an entryway that Ramsay actually stopped at. Unlike the previous doors they had ventured past, this room had a door made of light wood. 

“This is where you will be staying.” Ramsay said, sounding almost regretful that the tour was drawing to a close. 

Theon hesitantly approached the room as if the door was going to melt into a gaping abyss, drawing him into an unfortunate eternity. As he turned the knob, he noticed that Ramsay had not yet left.  _ Was he supposed to invite him in? What was the proper etiquette when dealing with your captor’s unsettling, enigmatic son, again? _

As he stepped through the threshold, that decision was fortunately—or perhaps unfortunately—made for him. As Theon took in the quaint room, boasting only a small hearth, large bearskin rug, thin bed, mismatched dresser, and a solitary wooden desk and chair combo, Ramsay strode in behind him casually. Wordlessly, he took a seat at the desk, turning the rickety chair to face the rest of the room and, subsequently, Theon. He did not say a word, only fixing his gaze on Theon’s blatantly confused form, and began to whistle a slow tune. Somehow, that only made the situation creepier. 

Theon stared back a moment, epinephrine bleeding into his veins at the eldritch occurrence. After a moment, ( _ don’t be rude, don’t be rude _ ) he resigned himself to continue as if there was not a man a mere two feet away watching him like a shadowcat stalks its prey.

He noticed a bag containing his sparse belongings sat atop the bed. He made quick work of tucking his clothing into drawers messily. He placed his spare pair of leather boots beneath the bed, and a few small bottles of perfumes and oils on top of the dresser. He side-stepped around Ramsay to place the semi-wilted wildflower that Arya had gifted him a few days prior on the desk. Somehow, it seemed to brighten the room up slightly. As Theon added another log to the fire, he heard Ramsay shuffle a bit, whistling dying off. The chair scraped loudly along the stone floor as Ramsay pushed back from it to stand. 

“Well,” He began nonchalantly, footfalls heavy, dragging, and unnecessarily loud in the quiet room, “I suppose I will leave you to become acquainted. I will have a servant drop off some food for supper momentarily. If you need anything more, ask them.” Ramsay smirked at Theon as he exited, allowing the door to shut stiffly behind him. Traitorously, Theon couldn’t help but think about how stiflingly  _ empty _ the room felt without his foreboding presence. 

———————————

Theon awoke in the morning, back stiffer than the unfortunately thin straw-stuffed mattress he was to grow acquainted with. He felt incredibly groggy, and he was utterly disoriented by the lack of windows in his room. Still, he got up with a short, exhausted breath. As he headed towards his dresser to collect his clothing for the day, he noticed something a bit odd. Lying lengthwise along the worn wooden topper of his dresser was his spare leather boots.  _ Hadn't he left those beneath the bed? _

When he took a step backwards to begin dressing, his ankle made contact with something cold and hard. It clattered against the floor, rolling beneath the bed. Theon sighed, exasperated, and crouched to pick it up. It was a small vial, now cracked and slick, of his favorite oil. Confused, he swept his arm beneath the bed, only to come in contact with the three other bottles of scented oil and perfume that he owned. 

Theon put them back on the dresser, and put the boots on the floor next to him. Sleep still clung to him like a thick fog, so Theon dressed in a clumsy stupor. As he tugged on the worn leather boots and dabbed his wrists and neck with sweet-smelling oil, he tried to ignore how bizarre his morning had already been.  _ Perhaps he had moved them before he had gone to bed, and had simply forgotten. _

———————————

On his way to break his fast, Theon had gotten lost. He wandered around the stone maze known as the Dreadfort for what could have been hours, though was likely shorter, before an odd servant showed him the way. Said servant had flowers in his hair, but even that did not mask a scent like death that viciously clung to the air around him. Theon tried not to gag, and stuck his body to the far wall as they walked in heavy silence. When they reached the dining hall and the servant left, Theon almost cried tears of joy.

Those tears of joy, however, dried rather quickly as a stern-faced woman informed Theon that breakfast was already over. She shoved a thick chunk of bread at him along with a goblet of water ( _ he would have much rather it have been wine _ ) and sent him on his way. 

After much more wasted time trying to find his chambers, Theon was finally ready to begin his chores for the day. He followed the hall to the semi-familiar rusted door, swinging it open with a dull creak. What he found, however, was not anything close to what had been in the closet the night before. In fact, the layout itself had changed completely.

The broom closet for the night prior had been shallow and crowded, brooms and cleaning supplies front and centre to the door. This room, however, was long, narrow, and impossibly dark. Against all better judgement, Theon grabbed a torch from the hallway and entered the room. As he stepped through the doorway, rusted hinges still creaking behind him, he immediately noticed the smell. A thick, heavy scent not unlike rotting meat permeated from within and assaulted his nostrils. Two steps into the darkness, Theon heard a quiet sound that reminded him of rain collected on stone and felt his boot nudge against something solid. Upon looking down, Theon immediately wished he hadn’t. Covering the bottoms of his boots was a puddle of red liquid, and against his boot— _ fucking hells, is that a dick _ ?

Theon felt his stomach roll uneasily, regretting eating that piece of bread a short while ago. As he lifted his head, the torch illuminated something marginally worse. A large wooden X was leaning against the far wall of the small closet, leather shackles on each end, and an actual fucking  _ dagger _ stabbed into the centre where the wood overlapped. Something dark was smudged down the planks of wood, caked on the floor below. Theon quickly turned and left, slamming the door firmly behind him, and putting the torch back onto the wall. 

When Theon turned back to figure out what to do now, he noticed something strange. Directly next to the door he had just exited was another warped and rusted door.  _ Wait, what? There had only been one rusted door last night, right? ...Right? _

Theon cautiously, very cautiously, approached the door as if it was going to grow fangs and devour him whole. As he turned the knob, anxiety spiked in his chest.  _ What if the rest of whoever that dick came from is in there? _ Still, upon opening the door, Theon found nothing but a small broom closet and cleaning supplies. He pressed down the relief, grabbing a broom and setting to work.  _ If he didn’t complete his chores, would he end up in that closet? _ He shuddered at the thought. As he swept, his bloodied boot prints smudged across the stone floor until nothing remained but a dull sheen. 

———————————

After a monotonously, unnecessarily long period of sweeping (Theon was  _ never _ told to do work that extensive whilst a ward of Winterfell), Theon was finally ready to begin his second task of the day. He wasn’t exactly sure of the time, as he had yet to see a glimpse of the sun, but he could assume well enough that he was running late to clean the kennels. 

As guards swung open the heavy doors of the Dreadfort for him, Theon was forced to squint through the thin rays of sunlight peeking in from outside. While it had been less than a day, Theon already felt as if he hadn’t seen the sun in decades. When he stepped outside, cloudy skies greeted him with the smell of impending rain dampening the air. He inhaled deeply, allowing a genuine smile to tug at the corner of his lips.

His fleeting moment of happiness didn’t last long—he took only a few steps before he felt dampness sinking into his boots. Biting back a groan of annoyance, Theon stepped out of the puddle and began the short walk to the kennels.

The Dreadfort dog kennels were expansive. In fact, the dark building appeared to be at least twice as long as the horse stables that Theon had noticed in the near distance. Upon opening the flimsy wooden door, Theon noticed a few things immediately. First, it smelled overwhelmingly of piss and iron inside. Second, that it was rather dim inside, with a few thin windows high off the ground and a solitary torch burning in the farthest corner. Belatedly, he noticed— _ Gods, why aren’t the individual kennel doors closed? _

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, Theon was forcibly shoved backwards, landing on his back. Momentarily frozen, he noticed a looming, shadowy figure was over him. Then another, and another, and—

“Jez, Helicant, down.” 

Only the large ebony dog remained, growling menacingly and drooling thick foam onto Theon’s neck. Theon scrambled for a moment, trying to push the creature off of his chest. Simultaneously, jaws clamped down on Theon’s wrist, and an airy whistle echoed through the building. Just as quickly as it had appeared, the dog slunk back into the shadows. 

“Wh-What in the seven hells was  _ that _ ?” Theon demanded as he stood, wobbly, cradling his throbbing wrist to his chest. He spared a nervous glance down, and sure enough, it was already beginning to bruise. 

“Who the fuck are you?” Came the counter, and Theon finally looked in the direction of the voice.

A young girl, likely about sixteen or seventeen, stood with a hand on a thin hip. With brunette hair and a forgettable face, Theon couldn’t help but be appalled that someone so  _ plain _ resided at the Dreadfort. She regarded Theon with a bitchy glare, expectant.

“I’m supposed to be cleaning in here, who the fuck are  _ you _ ?” Theon couldn’t help but shoot back.  _ So much for ‘no making enemies’ _ . In his defense, she was asking for it.

“My father’s the kennel master. My job is to clean in here. Besides, Ramsay told me to keep the kennels open.” 

Well, that made absolutely no sense. _Why the fuck had Ramsay asked him to clean the kennels if he knew it was this cunt’s job?_ _And why had he requested the kennels be left open?_ Theon pondered for a moment about whether or not to voice his confusion. 

“Why would he do that?” His words had less fire this time, uncertainty softening his tone considerably. 

“‘Don’t know. He probably wanted to watch you get your arm ripped off. See what you’re made of besides pretty looks and fake confidence.” She said it so seriously that he knew that she couldn’t be joking as she grinned at him tauntingly, and  _ wow, she and Ramsay seemed to have quite a bit in common. _

She had the same shark-like grin and uncannily accurate perception of his character that Ramsay used to intimidate Theon just the night before. Still, what she had in smirk and personality she lacked in atmosphere and glance; somehow, Ramsay had a presence that could rattle someone just by being near him. 

“Fucking  _ bastard- _ “ Theon started, pissed-off not only at Ramsay for apparently setting up such a thing, but also at Myranda for almost allowing it. He ran the hand that wasn’t attached to an injured wrist through his hair before trying again. “Does he do that often?” His voice was strained, weak.

“You’re new here, so I’m going to be nice and give you a bit of advice. Don’t  _ ever _ call him a bastard unless you really want his hounds to rip you to bloody shreds.” Theon ignored her blatant disregard for his second statement, instead raising his eyebrows as her words set in.

“Wait, Ramsay’s a  _ Snow _ ?” 

“You didn’t know?” She chuckled a bit to herself, much to Theon’s confusion. “I s’ppose he wouldn’t tell a trueborn heir like yourself. It’s definitely a sore spot of his.” 

Theon, for once in quite a while, was at a loss of what to say. He stared at her silently, lips parted slightly, as pieces began to slide together in his brain. He hadn’t heard that Roose Bolton had a son before he came to the Dreadfort because Ramsay was a  _ bastard _ . Roose seemed to eye Ramsay with such distaste and disappointment because Ramsay was a  _ bastard _ . Ramsay gave off such a chilling atmosphere because he was a  _ bastard _ . At least, it was easier to claim that every frightening facet of Ramsay’s being was due to his birth status, rather than consider the alternative.  _ He would have someone attacked by dogs simply for his enjoyment _ . 

“I-um. If you don’t need me, I’m going to go?” He hated how his voice came out questioning, as if he required her permission to leave. As he turned on his heel, the sound of dogs growling growing fainter, he could hear her speak up.

“Careful, now, Ramsay  _ loves _ to break pretty new toys like yourself.”

———————————

Theon returned to the castle, impossibly more unnerved than when he had left. This arrangement was only getting worse and worse, much to Theon’s dismay. It seemed the more he learned about the Dreadfort, the more sinister and dire his situation became. He was not too eager to learn what the consequence would be if he didn’t at least attempt to complete his chores, so he begrudgingly collected cleaning supplies and sulked down the stairs to the dungeons. 

The air was even more frigid than the air in the main level, and it smelled like stale water and something metallic doused in soap. He ignored it, reluctantly becoming more accustomed to the smell of what he could only assume was blood. He began at the edge of the stairs, setting down a bucket of cleaning water before falling gracelessly to his knees next to it. He grabbed the rag and set to scrubbing the smudged stone floor. 

He remained on his knees, scrubbing, for quite a while. He was sure his knees were bruised, and his back ached for a reprieve. Slowly, centimetre by centimetre, Theon made his way down the hall. When he was cleaning the doorway of the fourth ( _ fifth? _ ) dungeon, something unfortunate happened. The door to the room swung open unceremoniously, sending Theon’s bucket of foggy cleaning water flying backwards, spilling not only onto the floor but also dousing Theon himself. 

Theon quickly got to his feet, only to be knocked back down as whoever just exited said dungeon rounded the corner of the door and bumped into him. Theon hissed an angry breath out through his teeth as his coccyx throbbed in protest. He opted to keep his mouth shut, even though  _ who the fuck flings a door open like that without even looking? _

“Theon? What are you doing down here?” Ramsay asked, eyebrows creased in confusion. “Didn’t my father tell you? You cannot, under any circumstance, enter the dungeons.” For a moment, Ramsay sounded like he was reciting something he had heard a million times. The professionalism was short-lived, however, as Ramsay’s mouth upturned on one side. “Though, I must admit you look pretty good on your knees.” 

Theon huffed indignantly, getting to his feet quickly. Upon first glance, Theon noticed that Ramsay was covered in a dark liquid. It dripped from the tips of his dark hair, mixing mesmerizingly with the spilt cleaning water on the floor. In one hand was a comically large knife, and  _ what the fuck _ —Theon forced himself to look upwards at Ramsay's face, refusing to acknowledge what  _ certainly could not possibly be an organ of some kind _ that was lightly grasped and dangling from the older boy’s other hand. 

“You told me to scrub the hall.” Theon managed, as it sunk in just how potentially  _ disastrous _ this situation could be if not treated delicately. 

Ramsay tilted his head, almost like a puppy from one’s darkest nightmare imaginable, a smirk still on his lips, “I’m sure I would remember giving you such a ridiculous request,” His expression became more accusatory, “Why are you really down here?”

“I-Truly, you told me to..?” Again, Theon found his voice wavering insecurely. 

“Oh, you poor thing,” Ramsay said, coated in faux-sweetness and dripping sarcasm, “Being sent here is quite the change for you, hm? It must be driving you a bit mad.”

“What? No. No, no, you  _ told me _ yesterday, in the hall-“ Theon was absolutely, certainly not insane. He distinctly remembered Ramsay telling him to scrub the floors in the dungeons.  _ But then again, there was the thing with the kennels… And the broom closet…? _

“Come now, I’ll walk you back upstairs.” Ramsay turned to grab Theon by the back of the neck, grip firm, controlling, but not painful. He treated Theon as if he was going to turn around and run like a scared rabbit. Ramsay dropped Theon back at his chambers like a child, leaving Theon confused and more than a bit furious.

———————————

By the time the sun had begun to set and Theon was beckoned to join the family for supper, his previous anger had cooled off considerably, leaving only a vague sense of disorientation in its wake. He followed a stout, deadpan servant to the dining hall, dragging his feet a bit. Theon was uncertain who exactly he would be joining for the meal; the only members of the Bolton family that he had met so far were Roose and Ramsay.

When he entered the large room, he made a few automatic observations. There was only one table, but it was ridiculously large. It spanned almost the entire width of the room, and likely seated around fifty people. Another observation was the utter lack of people at said table. Roose Bolton sat at the head of the table, far from the door. Directly to his left was a woman, young and slightly paunchy with rouge-tinted cheeks. Finally, Ramsay sat at the foot of the table, closest to Theon. They were the only three people sitting at the ridiculously large table, yet the entire tabletop was filled with food. 

Theon was immediately at a loss of where to sit. There were more than twenty chairs between Roose and Ramsay on either side, with only one being occupied, yet that only made it worse. Was he supposed to sit close to Roose, as his captive? Was he supposed to sit in the direct centre, or would that be considered rude? Was he supposed to sit near Ramsay— _ actually, why would he be supposed to sit near Ramsay? It isn’t like Theon is his ward _ . He stood for a moment, silent and still, before an unlikely savior came to his rescue. 

“You must be Theon! I’ve heard so much about you. Come, sit!” The woman said, a wide, friendly smile spread along her face. She gestured to the seat directly across from herself and, subsequently, directly next to Lord Bolton. 

Theon plastered his best grateful, charismatic,  _ painfully fake _ smile on his lips as he walked over. “Thank you, um,” He paused momentarily, at a loss of how to address her. “M’Lady?” He tried, uncertainly.

“Please, call me Walda.” Her smile did not waver in the slightest, yet unlike the smiles he had received in the past day, it was motherly and tranquil rather than creepy and sinister.  _ At least someone at the Dreadfort isn’t entirely chilling _ . 

“It’s very nice to meet you, Walda.” Theon replied, surprisingly genuine. 

They sat in awkward silence for just a few seconds, staring at each other. Just as Theon was beginning to consider that maybe everyone at the Dreadfort actually was a bit creepy, Walda seemed to startle a bit.

“Oh, I’m sorry Theon, I’m sure you’re hungry,” She clapped her hands twice, and a servant quickly scurried over, grabbing a plate, a cup, and silverware from a nearby cart. “Please, help yourself to whatever you’d like.”

Theon smiled gratefully, taking the plate and scanning the food on the table. He slowly began piling moderate amounts of food onto the ceramic, trying not to twitch as he felt eyes  _ drilling _ into his skull. After he had grabbed a sufficient amount of food and poured himself a glass of wine, he sat back in his chair and took a tentative bite. Only as he was chewing did he finally brave a glance at the remaining occupants at the table. Roose had only leafy vegetables on his plate, yet was staring forward, unblinking, unmoving. With a glance to the opposite side of the table, Theon realized why. Ramsay was also glaring straight forward, face a mirror: blank and unblinking, also.

As Theon watched the exchange uneasily, Ramsay lifted his fork, spearing a large bite of food and lifting it to his lips. He chewed with his mouth open, obnoxiously, never faltering in his staring contest with Lord Bolton for even a second. 

Finally, after a very tense, very awkward moment, Roose spoke, “So, how was your day, son?” His tone was detached, obviously conveying how little he actually cared.

“Excellent,  _ father _ ,” The word was spit with barely-concealed venom, “And yours?” 

“Sufficient.” Came the almost robotic reply. 

Where Roose spoke in a normal tone, likely difficult to be heard from the opposite end of the room where Ramsay sat, Ramsay was all but  _ yelling _ so he could be easily heard. The tension was palpable, making the air thick and almost difficult to breathe in. 

Roose continued, “And how is the  _ project _ I assigned you going?” 

Ramsay’s eyebrow twitched violently, detectable even from the other end of the table. “Your lack of faith in me is disheartening.” His tone was almost as cold as his father’s, and  _ wow _ ,  _ just when Theon thought Ramsay could not possibly be any more menacing— _

Theon swung his head around to watch Roose’s response, feeling more like he was witnessing two wolves stalking each other in the forest than a ‘casual’ family dinner. Theon would be lying if he claimed he wasn’t disappointed when Roose’s face remained as stony and unreadable as before.

“Perhaps if you gave me a reason to have faith in you, there would be no need to be disheartened.”

Ramsay’s mask began to crack along the edges, his eyes flashing and jaw tensing in a way that gave away the fact that he was furious. “And perhaps if  _ you _ would get fu-" Ramsay began, voice even more audible this time, before Roose coolly cut in.

“Come sit with us so you mustn’t shout like a child to be heard.” His tone did not leave room for complaint or argument.

Ramsay huffed indignantly, glaring at his father a second more, before shoving his chair backwards dramatically. The resounding screech of the wooden chair legs against the stone floor was nothing short of ear-piercing, and Theon had to consciously stop himself from wincing. As Ramsay collected his plate and wineglass, both of which were precariously balanced and at risk of spilling at any moment, the room remained as quiet as a crypt. The younger Bolton ( _ Snow? _ ) all but stomped to the seat directly next to Theon, slumping into his chair petulantly. 

The room remained silent, and  _ gods, this had to be the most strained dinner Theon had ever attended _ . He took a small bite of his food, worried that everyone could hear him chewing audibly through the absolute silence. Theon could feel a bead of sweat trickle icily down his back as the silence stretched on. 

“So, Theon, I heard you're from Pyke?” The tension popped like a soap bubble;  _ thank the gods for Walda, honestly. _

“Yes, I lived there until I was nine. I was sent to Winterfell after my father’s rebellion.” As painful as the thought of his homeland was, it was certainly a welcome distraction against the dispute from mere moments ago. 

“I’ve always wanted to see the ocean,” Walda said, an almost dreamy look in her eyes, “I have heard that it’s beautiful.”

Just thinking of the ocean, Theon could almost feel the crisp waves lapping at his ankles, could almost taste the salt in the air. “It certainly is. It stretches as far as you can see, and the colour is unlike anything else. Not a single lake in the North can compare.” He almost felt embarrassed at how he gushed over the sea, but he felt as if he owed at least that much to Walda after she broke the painfully tense atmosphere. 

“It sounds lovely, perhaps someday we can take a trip there, all of us.” She said, wistful, glancing over at Roose hopefully. 

“Perhaps.” Lord Bolton replied, noncommittal. Walda’s smile visibly faltered.

Just as Theon was about to say something optimistic, he heard a small clattering, accompanied by the sound of liquid pouring. Deep red liquid poured from the soiled tabletop onto Theon’s trousers, soaking his thighs in viscous wine. 

Ramsay turned to Theon, eyes widened in mocking exaggeration. “Oh, how clumsy of me.” He did not bother to apologize, and through the exaggerated surprise he even had the audacity to look smug.

Theon could not conceal his anger, clenching a fist beneath the table. “Fucking  _ bastard _ .” He mumbled under his breath, barely audible. 

Apparently, he had not said it quietly enough, as he heard Walda’s sharp intake of breath at the statement. Theon spared a glance at Ramsay, only to see him smiling wide, mouth closed and jaw clenched tightly. 

“I’m sorry,  _ what was that? _ ” He asked through his teeth, smile gruesome as he spoke. Theon quickly averted his eyes.

“Ah, nothing.” Theon could still feel fury bubbling in his veins, but, quite frankly, found Ramsay to be too frightening to go up against at the moment. 

“Good. Now clean it up.” His voice had taken on an arctic quality once again, and Theon was not going to question his wishes. 

Theon all but ran to the supply closet, not pausing to ponder why there was only one rusted door in the hall once more ( _ but seriously, what the actual fuck? _ ). He made quick work of removing the wine from the floor, his chair, the wooden top of the table. After he put the cleaning supplies back and returned, the atmosphere was tense once more. Walda was eying him with something akin to pity, but at least Ramsay seemed satisfied. He smiled broadly at Theon, teeth glowing white and sharp in the candlelight. 

“Good boy.”  _ Condescending _ . He even went so far as to pat Theon on the head like a dog, a bit too harshly and bordering on painful.

Theon did not dignify it with a response. He instead took a deep drink of his beverage, wine tasting especially bitter through his fury. 

———————————

When Theon arrived back at his chambers after the thoroughly exhausting supper, he collapsed heavily onto his bed. He simply laid there for a moment, mind processing the rigid table conversations he had been subjected to. He allowed his eyes to flutter closed, motionless as he remained flat on the bed of pelts. He couldn’t help the fury that remained in the forefront of his mind at being treated like nothing more than a servant. Actually, 'servant' may be too nice of a term, perhaps 'pet' fit the situation more accurately. As he mulled over the evening, he dazedly noticed his mind becoming more dulled, thoughts less connected. Without meaning to, Theon drifted into a light sleep.

———————————

Theon awoke slowly. As he did, however, he groggily noticed that he was quite warm. An understatement—he was absolutely  _ scorching _ . His skin was slick with sweat, and he could feel droplets running down his neck laterally, causing his clothing to stick uncomfortably to shoulders, abdomen, legs. At first thought, he assumed the room was aflame, based on how uncomfortably hot he was. He bolted upright, only to find that the air was surprisingly cool against his skin.  _ If the room was so cold, then why was Theon so hot? _

As he became more aware, he noticed the more humiliating part of the situation. He was fully aroused, apparently, and the throbbing sensation between his thighs was insistent. Oddly enough, he did not remember his dream being particularly sexual in nature. As Theon shifted his position unpleasantly, he felt a stickiness rub against his crotch—one that could not be blamed on the sweat.  _ Had he…? _

Breathing out a long-suffering sigh, Theon gently rubbed the palm of his hand against the front of his trousers, a small breathy sound escaping his teeth at the not-quite-relief. He stood before he could get much further. As desperate as he felt in the moment, it certainly would not feel right to get off in what he now considered an enemy fortress. Perhaps he could find a young maid or local whorehouse to relieve his urges at a later time. 

Still, as desperately as Theon tried to ignore his arousal, and as much as he distracted himself, his erection did not wain in the slightest. If anything, the feeling only became more all-encompassing. As Theon paced the room, panting at the sheer heat that seemed to be rolling from his skin in waves, he could feel every droplet of precum that dripped messily from his tip, adding to the growing patch of wetness at the front of his trousers.

Finally, after what had to have been at least half an hour though may have been more, Theon was exasperated. He was increasingly feverish, and in a need-induced stupor had finally resigned himself to quickly get off. After all, he had never experienced a lust as intense as this, and was not sure if it would ever cease if he continued attempting to ignore it. He sat on the edge of his bed, legs splayed wide. He gently dipped his fingers into the waistband of his trousers, when—

Someone was knocking at his door. The sound was forceful, demanding, leaving no room for disregard. Theon almost wept in pure anguish as he rose to shakily answer.

Almost predictably, Ramsay stood in his doorway, a gleeful look in his eyes, and fist raised in mid-knock. As his eyes landed on Theon, he smiled widely, teeth bared, and nodded his head almost imperceptibly in a way that seemed almost  _ approving _ . 

Still, Theon was probably quite a sight. He could feel sweat dripping from the ends of his hair as if he had been training for hours. He could only guess how red his face was, though judging by how hot he felt he could safely assume he was glowing. He could only hope that his underclothes effectively covered the obviously erect lines of his cock, along with the dark patch that he was sure was quite blatant. 

He looked up at Ramsay, feeling his former anger return subconsciously. He managed to glare straight into those hell-frozen-over irises, feigning confidence and arrogance that he did not possess the capacity to currently feel. 

“Can I he-help you?” Though his words were gritted and forceful, Theon cursed his throat for breaking on the one word. 

Ramsay’s eyes lazily roved up and down Theon’s form, seemingly staring through his clothes, his skin, his muscle, and looking straight at his bones, his  _ soul _ . 

“I need you to go fetch something from the stables.”

Wonderful.  _ Abso-fucking-lutely wonderful that right as Theon is obviously in no state to be wandering the grounds of the Dreadfort, his own personal devil magically appears to send him out into the night. _

“I-I’m busy. And tired. Can’t you have a servant do it?” Theon was almost pleading, desperation pushing anger to the back burner as he uncomfortably shifted his weight from foot to foot. Ramsay watched the movement with wide, unblinking eyes, seemingly equal parts curious and predatory as his pupils seemed to grow wider, darker. 

“They’ve all retired for the evening, I’m afraid.” 

“Why can’t you do it yourself?” At this, Ramsay leveled Theon with a sarcastic look, obviously contemplating if Theon is a complete dunce or not. 

“Why would I do that when I can have you do so? Besides,  _ I’m busy _ .” The words were so mocking that Theon had to fight to keep an agitated sneer from his lips. After all, the sooner he retrieved whatever it was that Ramsay so  _ desperately required _ , the sooner Theon could return to his chambers and take care of his  _ issue _ . 

Theon sighed audibly, “Fine, what do you need?”

“A lash from the stables. My current one was…” He trailed off momentarily. “Rendered unusable.”

Theon shuddered at the thought of what Ramsay could possibly require a horsewhip for at such a late hour, especially as he was certainly not riding horses. Theon briefly remembered the closet-like room he stumbled upon earlier that day, and felt small shivers rake across his feverish skin. 

Theon nodded mutely, retreating back into his room to grab a cloak. While he may have been unnecessarily warm, he was not prepared to fall ill in the presence of people as eerie as the Boltons. He wrapped himself in the thick furs, then pulled on his boots. As he started down the hall, he could feel his trousers painfully rubbing against his erection in a way that was likely to chafe if he was not careful. He walked carefully so as to avoid the worst of it, and could not help the mortification he felt when he noticed Ramsay staring at him from down the hall. 

———————————

As he stumbled down the paths outside the main fortress of the Dreadfort, Theon attempted to avoid locking eyes with any of the passing individuals he encountered. It seemed Ramsay was lying about the servants all being in bed for the evening, as there seemed to be plenty mulling about outside. He kept his head ducked as much as possible, even as he felt sweat drip into his eyes at the motion. 

It felt like an eternity had passed before he arrived at the stables. They seemed to be the farthest from the main building, much to Theon’s dismay. He strode in without knocking, scanning the dark wall for whips.  _ He really should have brought a torch _ . 

He wandered the stables almost blindly for quite a while before he finally encountered someone. He was a young male, likely a couple of years younger than Theon, but he seemed to be in pretty good spirits. At least, in better spirits than any other servant Theon had seen. He looked a bit startled at Theon’s presence, but appeared to brush it off quickly. 

“‘R y' lookin’ f’somethin’?” His accent was unlike any Theon had heard yet, something Eastern combined with a low-borne dialect. Still, he couldn’t help but be relieved that someone was still lurking around the building at such a late hour, and thus, able to help Theon locate a lash.

“I-ah, Ramsay sent me for a whip?” He requested shakily.

The stable boy regarded Theon with an intrusive look. It felt as if he was  _ actually seeing _ Theon for the first time; it was nothing short of unsettling. 

“Hm, th’ Master sent you for y’r own impl'ment, huh?” He regarded Theon with pity, before turning on his heel and walking toward the far wall.

“Keep ‘em over ‘ere, y' wan’ta pick it?” 

He gestured to a rack that contained an absurd amount of whips. Beyond the whips, however, there were tools that Theon had never before seen. Hoods with spikes that certainly would not fit a horse, thick sticks with nails pressed deeply into the wood, an odd cone-shaped device that Theon did not dare to dwell on the possible use for. 

“It’s not-“ Theon started, before deciding the argument would be futile and, more importantly, time-consuming. “It doesn’t matter which one.”

The stable boy nodded again, seemingly in empathetic understanding. “A’right then, this ‘un don’t hurt too much when it hits y'." He gestured to a sturdy-looking black whip with a short thong and feathery popper. 

Theon nodded his thanks, reluctantly, and hurried away from the stables, vowing not to look back or even consider the sheer embarrassment he’ll later feel at the stable boy’s assumptions. 

By the time Theon arrived back at the main fortress, almost all of the servants had vacated the streets. Perhaps it was getting late, though the clouds obscured the moon enough to make it impossible to tell. Tragically, throughout the entire excursion, the burning heat had yet to leave Theon alone. Furthermore, he was still in an obvious state of arousal, though he was trying his best to ignore it. 

He rounded the corner nearest to his chambers, and almost ran face-first into Ramsay. The latter seemed almost startled, and took a quick step back. The reaction was amazingly human, though the predatory, excited smile that crossed his lips still made him appear sinister. 

He reached out, expectant, for the whip that Theon had cradled between both forearms. He took it forcefully, running his fingers along the handle before cracking it experimentally into the open space of the hallway. Theon squirmed in discomfort at the resounding sound. 

“Had help picking this one out, hm?” He seemed disappointed. 

“I wasn’t sure what to grab. The stable boy-“ Theon began, nervous.

“No matter; this will suffice just fine. You’re dismissed.” He waved Theon away nonchalantly, before turning and strolling into the shadows of the dark hall. 

Theon watched him go for a moment, appalled. Ramsay whistled a low tune as he went, and it echoed eerily down the hall as he got further away. Finally, Theon deemed it safe to return to his own chambers, jerkily stripping himself of his cloak, boots, and underclothes as he made his way to the bed. He was so desperate that shame was no longer a deciding factor. 

That evening, Theon found that his arousal barely waned as he came once, twice, three times. By the fourth and fifth orgasms, he could hear how loud he had become, but did not care. He writhed against the soft furs adorning his bed, and at some point deliriously noticed the tears that dripped down his cheeks. Eventually, exhausted, he had become abased enough to just roll his hips desperately against the bed, sobs tearing from his throat in oversensitivity. Finally, after getting off in one session more than he typically did in an entire week, Theon fell into a deep, semi-satiated slumber.

———————————

When the morning arrived and he stuttered his way through breakfast with Roose, Walda, and Ramsay, he couldn’t help but choke on his food as Ramsay regarded him with faux concern. 

"You sounded as if you were in pain last night. Are you alright?" Ramsay seemed to know what Theon was doing the previous night, and that made Theon exceptionally uneasy.

Theon eventually quieted his coughs with gulps of juice, ignoring the question and giving Ramsay a pointed glare from the corner of his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you made it all the way through, I appreciate you greatly. 
> 
> Any kudos, comments, bookmarks etc are appreciated though not expected. Please feel free to ask questions, make predictions, etc if you’d like. Also, if you have anonymous questions or such that you’d like to ask, I have a tumblr (that I mostly use to lurk rather than actually post on) @caffeinesadist 
> 
> Until next time!

**Author's Note:**

> If you made it to the end, thank you very much for reading! Please, please let me know if you enjoyed/have any complaints/want to make inferences/have any prompts or ideas, etc. Until next time!


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